


Burning That Much Higher

by fadeoutslow



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the 2012 Race of Champions weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning That Much Higher

"We're too old for this," David will say, sometimes. Not often, though. Not as often as he should.

And Michael will just smile, enigmatic as always, and reply, "You always say that."

And to be fair, David does, but that doesn't make it any less true, because they _are_ too old for it, this unsteady, jagged thing between them that, even after all these years, somehow never settles into anything resembling easy or comfortable.

They've always been this way, though, friction between them like something alive, feeding the spark till it flares into heat, into action.

And today feels like it's been one long round of foreplay, appraising glances in the locker room, speed on the track, joking, casual touches in interviews and between races. Michael holds David's gaze as he slings an arm around Sebastian's shoulders, pulls him closer, one hand on the back of his neck, fingers squeezing in a gentle caress. David watches as Seb ducks away, all lively eyes and mouth wide with laughter.

He turns, talking to Romain, and David makes a show of checking out his arse, looking back to see Michael smirking at him. David smiles, throwing himself down on the grass, leaning back on his arms, his legs sprawled open like an invitation, and Michael doesn't hesitate, hands on his hips as he blatantly ogles David's crotch.

It's not subtle, but then they've never been subtle. Subtle is for people who want to feel safe, protected. They've both always preferred the siren charms of risk, of a life lived close to the edge. 

David feels the sweat running down his spine, and sinks down on to his elbows, shifting his hips. He looks up at Michael, who's still staring, biting down on his bottom lip, one hand rubbing over his stomach, under his t-shirt but over his race suit. 

"See anything you like?" David says, loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Maybe," says Michael, his voice even. "If you're lucky," he adds, and David can't hide his grin.

Later that night, they're at some bar along with most of the other drivers, sitting at opposite ends of the group, pointedly ignoring each other apart from occasional, brief, heated looks.

David goes to the bar to get another round, and he's standing, waiting, squeezed in place by the crowd when someone's suddenly behind him, a hand on his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. He'd know it was Michael, anyway, body so familiar after all this time, but the feel of the erection pressed up against him just confirms it.

"Losers buy the drinks, right?" Michael says, tongue licking a quick, wet stripe behind David's ear.

"Just wait till tomorrow." David smiles, pushing his hips back towards Michael, hearing the gratifying little grunt of satisfaction Michael gives as he rubs up against him. "I'm going to kick your arse."

"What about tonight?" Michael asks. "What are you going to do to my arse tonight?"

And David groans because, despite all the adrenaline, the posturing, he really is kind of tired. It's so hot here, and it's been such a long year. "Maybe we shouldn't…" he says.

But, of course, they do. 

Back at Michael's hotel, humping each other in the lift like a pair of horny teenagers, messy kisses and hands everywhere, jeans already half-undone. They stumble up the corridor, laughing, Michael whispering filthy things into David's ear, and they must look a sight, David thinks, but there's no one around to care.

And as soon as the door to Michael's room clicks shut behind them, David's slammed up against the wall, no time to even breathe before Michael's on his knees, David's cock halfway down his throat. David spreads his legs, leaning back, closing his eyes, hands rough in Michael's hair, gripping and tugging, and, at his age, coming this fast should be humiliating, something to be ashamed of, but it's just a measure of what they can still do to each other, the effect they can still have.

"God," David says. "Fucking hell."

And then he's bent over a table, chairs kicked out of the way, cool surface unforgiving beneath his chest, wrists held firm behind his back. Michael's cock is buried deep in his arse, fucking into him with slow, tortuous thrusts, and there's a delicious hint of strain in his shoulders at every stroke as Michael pulls on David's arms, gaining extra leverage.

The sharp edge of the table digs hard into his hips, and he can feel the bruises forming, blossoming like a memory, a souvenir. Tomorrow, in the car, he'll fasten his harness, hiss at the pain when it presses at the sore places, and he'll look over at Michael, who will be watching, mouth slightly open, his eyes bright with something unnameable.

"We're too old for this," David will say, later, and Michael will smile.

"No," he'll say. "We're not."


End file.
